As the Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, Caleb doesn’t get much time to focus on the needs of his designation.

Outside of his files, confidential and only open to a few select people, his status as an omega is secret. It’s a military requirement to take suppressants and use scent blockers — there’s no space on the field to make stupid mistakes led by instincts.

Or, in Caleb’s humble opinion, idiots who have no self-control over base desires.

It’s never bothered him. He’s happy to have everyone assume he’s an alpha, or a beta, or whatever they want to think. He’s never been particularly concerned of what people thought of him, not when the only opinion he’s ever considered is the one of his childhood friend and soon-to-be mate, he hopes.

Of course, you have always been aware of his designation. You were there when he presented. You’d been a consistent comfort throughout his life, one he was glad he had back after he’d disappeared.

Caleb particularly takes comfort in scent. It’s the one thing he can always fall back on, whether you’re busy with your Hunter work or curled up at home with him. It also means that he’s taken to absolutely hating when you turn up to the apartment after work, smelling all wrong.

Maybe he’s annoying when he decides it’s necessary to scent you as soon as you’re through the door — he doesn’t particularly care. His apartment is warm and inviting and covered in your shared scents. Caleb can’t help the way his clingy nature surfaces when you’re close by. It’s the only time he feels as though he can truly relax.

“Don’t go,” he breathes one night, face pressed into the crook of your neck. His grip on you is tight, like he can’t bear the thought of you moving away for even a second. “You don’t have to go home. You can stay here. With me.”

That would be enough for him, he thinks. Even if you eventually decided you didn’t want to mate him, being able to have you close to ensure you were safe would keep him happy. “I’d look after you. It would be just you and me, pipsqueak. Like before.”